Bread, with peanut butter, and later, with butter. One of my roommate’s bananas. I will buy more. Read a little of Thich Nhat Hanh, and Marya Hornbacher, both of whom are staple writers for me. The epilogue of Wasted, discussing the futility of self-destruction, and the struggle of reconciling it, of learning to live in the real world, to take part in all the daily everythings, which are otherwise so frightening. It is so interesting to have one’s own personal whirlwind drama, but I have to let it go. It’s funny, most people who deal with any kind of mental illness recognize the feeling of missing it when it’s gone, when we’re trying to move on. Anything can become comfortable, familiar. And the person I am when I live in such spaces becomes familiar too. I like her, I like being with her because she understands me. She understands the scars and the thoughts and the resentment and anger. And the sadness. But this is no way to live. The repetition, the indulging of the sore, poking and prodding so the pus oozes out, letting the infection grow incredibly, for my own amusement.

Another day, another documentary. Yes, documentaries are good. Get me out of the pity and into the hearts of others. Still, I worry- how will I manage doing the dishes? cleaning my room, the piles of clothes and books and papers and clothes and books perched precariously on seats and shelves and atop pencil cases, smaller books, notepads, boxes of paints, oh my little empire of sadness, my messy civilization, the pyramids I’ve built to hide behind, to sleep under a pile of nothings which resemble the chaos of my mind.